


Let's add this to the gay agenda

by astrosaur



Series: because we're allowed to be proud [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: (almost) Everyone is Queer, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Minor Bill/Richie and Bill/Eddie (if Richie is to be believed), Pennywho? I don't know her, Richie Tozier Being a Dumbass, Stanley Uris is So Done, Trans Ben Hanscom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrosaur/pseuds/astrosaur
Summary: Mike brings the gang back together to help Don and Adrian serve the best revenge possible following a hate-motivated attack: an event that celebrates their pride.Richie hasn't seen the Losers since high-tailing it out of Derry after high school. Upon his return, old feelings resurface for a childhood crush. The only thing is, no one else seems to understand that it's totally normal to keep tabs on said crush's best friend.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: because we're allowed to be proud [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679452
Comments: 9
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

Richie deserves this. This is what he gets for thinking that Stan was calling him for any reason other than to nag.

“You better join this time,” Stan drones on. “You already missed the first two meetings. Don’s setting up the Hangout specifically so you and Ben can join.”

“Don who?”

“Don Hagerty, one of the guys spearheading this. You know, the reason we’re heading back to Maine in the first place? Or did you not read a single thing Mike sent you?”

“Oh, yeah, that guy.” Richie feels distinctly judged by Stan’s silence and leaps to his defense. “I’m still deactivating the New England filters in my brain, okay? I’ve been blocking out anything east of Chicago since graduation, and I was going to keep at it until our planet’s fried by cow belches. I’m not as eager as you are to belly-flop into trauma triggers. What are you doing there so early, anyway?”

“Three days before the event is hardly early, especially since my firm is one of the main sponsors for it,” Stan replies.

“Ah, whoring out your soul for pimp daddy corporate America, and using the cash to bankroll a pride event in response to your hometown’s homophobia. Tale as old as time.”

“Beverly’s doing most of the bankrolling,” Stan snorts. “She’s already here, too. I think she got here first, then Bill, Eddie and I arrived at the same time. Well, my flight landed a bit later than theirs, but they offered to hang around and wait for me.”

“…Bill and Eddie? You still talk to those two?”

“Of course I do.”

“What do you mean of course you do, how am I supposed to know that if you can’t be bothered to get on Snapchat or Instagram? Fucking Facebook, even! How do I even know you’re a real person and you’re not reverse-catfishing me?”

Stan, in his lifelong crusade against social media, does not dignify that with a reply. “There’s no reason I’d lose touch with them. I’m not the one who outed Eddie to his mother.”

Richie groans. Not this again. “Asking Mrs. K why she let her precious baby boy spend the night at Bill’s unsupervised – the two of them _alone under one roof_ – is not the same as outing Eddie.”

“You convinced her to check if Eddie packed extra underwear in his duffel bag—”

“Which he did!”

“—which he always does!”

“And it’s fucking weird each time! Why does he need a whole pack of clean tighty-whities to spend a night at Bill’s, huh?” Richie insists. He bulldozes over Stan’s appalled objections to get down to more important business. “Wait, so, Bill and Eddie. They arrived together?”

Stan doesn’t answer, but Richie can almost hear his eyebrow creaking up to his hairline.

“Was I right, then? Anything happen there?” Richie prods.

“Are you serious right now.”

“Shut up! This is Bill we’re talking about,” Richie says emphatically.

Stan emits a professionally put-upon sigh. “Richard. Do you still think you’re hung up on Bill?”

“What, like I have emotional ADHD, too? I know what I want! I have been holding this torch for our dearest Billiam since I was twelve.”

“Sure. You’ve liked Bill since you were twelve,” Stan deadpans.

“Your sarcasm is neither appreciated nor warranted. Have I ever said anything to make you believe otherwise?”

“No, you’ve never _said_ anything,” Stan concedes. “Although if you wanted to date Bill that whole time, you could’ve spent more time getting on his good graces and less time pestering his best friend.”

“It’s not my fault I couldn’t get near Bill without his miniature rottweiler yapping at me. ‘ _Stay away from Bill!_ ’, ‘ _Bill can do better!_ ’, ‘ _you’re embarrassing Bi~ill_!’”

“I know you haven’t had a real conversation with Eddie in decades, but you’ve somehow gotten worse at impressions. You’ve discovered a layer below rock-bottom. Congratulations.”

Richie continues, undeterred. “I don’t get what Eddie’s problem was. Personally, I would want a man who was so into me that he took the time out of his day to create congratulatory leaflets with close-up photos of my crotch. That’s fucking _Notting Hill_ , _Sleepless in Seattle_ level shit. Why would Bill prefer a mommy’s boy who thinks his anaconda shouldn’t be appreciated by his neighbors?”

“For the last time, Eddie and Bill were never a thing. If Bill wanted to date a guy back in high school, it was Mike.”

Richie scoffs. “You think everyone’s into Mike. I don’t have a psych degree, but I believe Freud said that means you want to suck Mike’s dick.”

“And that’s the end of this call,” Stan decides. “I just have one last thing to say.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll join the fucking meeting. Quit kvetching, you klippeh.”

“Your pronunciation is anti-Semitic. And what I was going to say is that this weekend, you are to leave Eddie alone.”

“Excuse you?” Richie squawks.

“Leave. Him. _Alone_ , Richie,” Stan repeats. “This weekend is a big deal. Not just for Adrian and Don – I hope you remember who they are – but for the whole community. This is bigger than your romantic failings, and there is enough that could go wrong without you riling Eddie up the entire time.”

“I see how it is. Blame Richie for that brat’s tantrums. Even though I only incited, like, 90% of them. The fuck is that about? Don’t tell me you’re dating him, now.”

“You think everyone’s dating ‘that brat,’” Stan lobs back. “Ask Freud what he thinks about that.”

=

The phone call does the trick. Minutes later, Richie’s clicking on the video conference link as if Stan were right behind him holding a gun to his head. Once he joins, Richie’s screen fills with two other squares. One displays a living room and about ten people circling the camera, and the other reveals a face that Richie doesn’t recognize right away.

Richie’s jaw drops when Ben introduces himself. Ben Hanscom looks so good it’s absurd – much better than he did in high school, back when he would flinch at the name that teachers called him. Looking much more comfortable in his skin, pixilation can’t diminish how hot he is, and neither can Richie. “Talk about a fucking glow-up! Damn, facial hair looks good on you.”

It’s a little harder to discern his other middle school friends, lemming-sized and crammed in the other tiny box on Richie’s monitor. Beverly is the first to acknowledge him with a warm, “Richie! So nice of you to finally grace us with your presence!”

Richie spots Bill right away. He’s a little less clean-cut, a little more rugged, and approximately as pretty as Richie remembers. Bill turns to glance at the sloping-shouldered brunet next to him, the one that’s pointedly keeping his mouth shut, before he faces the camera again and offers a perfunctory wave. Beside him, Eddie shifts and looks out into the opposite direction.

Richie’s chest twists as if to confirm that, yup, some things don’t die – they just sit on the sidelines for years until they’re ready to pounce right back out.

Richie also vaguely recognizes Adrian and Don from the article that Mike forwarded him, but there are a number of faces he can’t place at all. He later learns that they’re friends Adrian and Don recruited, more warm bodies to occupy the trenches in their worthy crusade.

Don thanks the group for joining the call and gives a heads-up that their inboxes will soon overflow with more information than they’ll know what to do with. Adrian then presides, going over the day-by-day preparation that awaits them.

Richie tries to listen carefully, but he gets distracted cataloguing the touches passed between Bill and Eddie. Casual, chummy ones, and others brimming with undeniable underlying affection even through Richie’s screen.

He’s slightly chastised when he gets a text from Stan: _Pay attention and quit creeping on B & E._

Richie wills himself not to make a face on camera. B & E?? Yeah, makes sense. The shorthand for “breaking and entering” does indeed suit the concept of Bill and Eddie as a couple: untenable and should be rejected wholesale by respectable society. R & B is far superior.

Richie heeds the first half of Stan’s message, though, and he opens the files Don emailed them. He pores through the documents that lay out everything from individual responsibilities to a code of conduct with respect to volunteers, attendees, vendors, and the almighty sponsors.

He sees that he’s been designated Merchandise Booth Captain, tasked to hawk Beverly and Don’s designs. It’s not a bad gig, and he can’t think of anything he’d be better suited for. He likes to talk and he’s accustomed to laughing off rejections (when they’re low-stakes).

Richie skims and takes note of Bill’s fate – his job description as one of five Block Captains is a bit more nebulous. Block Captains sound like janitor-cop hybrids, meant to scope out the area they’re assigned to and make sure nothing looks out-of-place.

He checks the festival map and sees that the merchandise booth is in Block 4, next to Bill’s. He doesn’t even need to verify who’s in charge of his block, because he knows his luck by heart. He has no doubt he’s in the undersized hands of one Eddie Kaspbrak.

Richie toggles back to the Hangout tab and takes another long look at Eddie. This time, he isn’t hanging all over Bill, to Richie’s relief. He is, however, quietly conferring with Stan about something, and it’s almost as infuriating. It’s not enough that he gets to be the apple of Bill’s eye, he has to steal Stan from Richie, too?

To his credit, Richie only spends the next five minutes glowering at Eddie before he catches himself perhaps going a tad overboard, getting territorial over their mutual friends. He’s beginning to comprehend the herculean scope of Stan’s directive to stay out of Eddie’s business.

=

Richie’s welcome party consists of lingering embraces from Mike and Ben and a kiss on the cheek from Beverly. It’s uncomfortably close to an old wet dream of his, except each of his friends have grown up to be sexier than any phantoms his nocturnal brain dared to conjure. Stan gives them a wide berth, not one to accost people at the door with affection, preferring instead to signal his acknowledgement from a safe distance.

Richie steps inside the AirBnB Mike rented for them, taking stock of it. His eyes eventually land on a pair of men hunched over their laptops on the kitchen counter. His feet skid to a stop as he drinks in the sight of Bill and Eddie, live and in color, his body contemplating whether or not to combust on the spot. “So you six really just turned the fuck out like that and I still gotta work with this?” Richie gestures vaguely at himself.

In return, Bill busts out a congenial enough smile. “Hey, Richie, long time no see.”

Ben throws in a “you look great, Richie!” because he’s always been the kind of man that all others should aspire to be.

Richie also earns a brief glance from Eddie along with a wordless grunt before he averts his attention back to his laptop.

“Eddie’s working remotely. We both are,” Bill explains. He bumps Eddie’s shoulder with his. “Come on. Bigger than high school shit, right?”

“I said hi,” Eddie blatantly lies.

Richie pays his last respects to the short-lived concept of playing nice. “Are you still pissed about high school? You gotta let it go, man, we’re twice as old as we were when that shit went down.”

“You outed me to my mom.” Eddie repeats “my mom” emphatically, which— yeah. That’s fair.

“It’s not like I meant to,” Richie defends himself weakly.

“That’s not an apology,” Eddie observes.

Bill catches Richie’s gaze and shrugs, not quite apologetically.

Richie expects as much. Because, as lovely as Bill is, he’s far from perfect. The thing about Bill is that his savior complex is so crippling that, at one point in junior high, Richie half-expected his Jansport backpack to transform into a crucifix. Naturally, Bill always gives Eddie the time of day. How else would he respond to Eddie batting those worshipful My-Little-Pony peepers at him?

Hell, Eddie’s whole deal sucked Richie in too, sometimes. No one’s perfectly immune to this cleaner-than-thou twerp when he laughed himself breathless at some dumb shit you said. You don’t simply come to hate the pixie-faced menace that once yelled “ _I_ like Richie’s braces!” after Sally Mueller deemed that making out with you would be like bashing one’s face with a grater.

Truth be told, Richie really did love Eddie, even when he can be Something and a Half.

Richie resurrects the idea of attempting to make peace when Eddie grouses under his breath, “Did you bother packing clean underwear, or did you figure no one will get plastered enough to sleep with you this weekend?”

Purely by reflex, Richie shoots back, “I didn’t bother, your mom loves how convenient it is to get on my dick when I go commando.”

So yeah, Richie loved Eddie, but also, fuck that guy.

Well. Anybody _but Bill_ fuck that guy.

=

The day before the festivities, all hands are on deck. The organizers, crew, and volunteers scramble around the festival area, lining up tent after tent, hefting furniture and equipment from one end of the street to the other.

Richie tries his best to be useful when he’s asked to transport a wall of fake foliage to the family area. Which could be located in Greenland, for all he knows. He wanders aimlessly before he has to set the prop down, in part to sniff out a potential dumping ground for it, and in part to give his arms a much-needed break.

Richie’s in the middle of rubbernecking helplessly when Eddie appears in front of him like a mirage. “Block 1 is by the entrance,” he says as he takes one end of the panel. “It’ll be easier if we do this sideways.”

“That’s what your mom says, but she also likes it from behind.” Look, it’s not Richie’s fault if Eddie’s going to leave low-hanging fruit like that.

Eddie glares at him around the plastic tufts. “I’m more than happy to let you carry this on your own.”

“Trust me, I know. What I don’t get is why you’re helping me in the first place,” Richie says. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I don’t make it a habit to let people die by artificial hedges, though you are seriously making me reconsider that lifestyle.”

“Bill told you to behave, didn’t he?”

Eddie doesn’t respond, which is an answer in itself. “I’m telling you, this’ll go by faster if we flip this sideways!”

“Yeah, I’m not about to take advice from a slightly oversized Powerpuff Girl.”

“Jesus, are those two fighting or flirting?” Adrian stage-whispers when they pass him by. Without looking up from the tent they’re setting up, Mike just says “yes” while Stan offers, “the word you’re looking for is ‘and’”. Richie would flip them off, but his hands are occupied.

He and Eddie go back and forth to set up the family station, and it becomes a game of civil chicken. Who can be nicer to who, who can behave according to plan? Although nice isn’t quite the word to describe their ensuing interaction. There’s plenty of mild taunting in the middle of lowkey catching up on each other’s lives.

Richie would never admit it, but when their banter toes the edges of playful, he feels light enough to float. It’s the first time he feels like there’s redemption to be had after screwing up their friendship and voiding any chance he might’ve had with Bill.

=

That night, as Richie is being treated to a joint lecture from Ben and Stan about using too much hot water, Bill’s ear-piercing scream rings throughout the house. Stan and Ben pause their duet on water conservancy to look at each other and at Richie.

The three of them run out into the kitchen where the outburst came from. They come upon a scene heavy with tension. Bill’s clutching at Eddie’s lapels, tugging at him, yelling that he’s too young to die.

“What are you talking about? I’m just making scones for breakfast since we have to get up early tomorrow.” Eddie protests when Bill steers him away, putting distance between him and the kitchen counter.

“Let him bake what he wants,” Beverly admonishes.

“Eddie doesn’t bake, he sets kitchens on fire,” Bill says, stutter coming out in full force.

“See if I let you have any!” Eddie retorts. It’s not much of a threat judging from the smell that Richie’s beginning to notice. Either that or he’s having a stroke.

Bill turns the oven off just as smoke tellingly seeps off it. “It’s okay, guys. Made it just in time.”

Ben goes to pop open the oven door and immediately starts coughing at the onslaught of smog-gray vapor.

Eddie weaves his way back to the oven. He reaches into it and unveils his blackened masterpieces, much to the onlookers’ horror. “I’m perfectly happy with how these turned out.” A slight wobble enters his voice, overlooked only by its speaker.

“Please don’t eat that,” Mike pleads.

“Tomorrow is supposed to be a joyous event,” Bill adds. “We want you alive for it.”

“Weren’t you preaching about the chemicals in browned potatoes the other day?” Stan says.

To the untrained eye, Eddie sputters and reacts as usual, shooting off a profound chain of profanities. But the genuine hurt in his eyes is unmistakable, and once Richie identifies it, it’s hard to ignore.

Richie convinces himself it doesn’t matter who’s getting picked on. He’d have an aversion to this sort of treatment regardless of who was on the end of it. And so, despite the fact that Eddie would benefit from his generous heart, Richie grabs a handful of baked goods (using the term lightly) and shovels it in his mouth.

Bill, Beverly, Mike, and even Eddie gawk at him. Ben has this dopey look on his face that’s almost as nauseating as the scones.

Richie’s jaw works furiously to get the scones down and remove the taste of cancer from his mouth as quickly as possible. “You guys just kept yapping, I mean, come on,” he says through a mouthful, spewing charred bits of dough. He gulps audibly before scarfing down more failed scone prototypes. “When’s dinner getting here? I’m fucking ravenous and this is the closest thing we have to something edible?”

A beat passes, then Beverly cracks up. “The way to a man’s heart, huh?” She sends a wink Eddie’s way. And to Richie, “Really earning your nickname here, Trashmouth.”

Mike sighs. “I’ll check on the dinner delivery. Hopefully that stomach of yours doesn’t land you in the hospital.”

Eddie doesn’t even defend himself from Mike’s roundabout insult. He’s too busy looking at Richie like he’d just performed seppuku in front of them. “Well I…” he says, visibly trying to regain his composure. “I never knew you had a taste for something finer than fast food.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea. I haven’t eaten in five hours, that’s all. Please don’t ‘bake’ again if you value human life.” With that, Richie pops one last piece into his mouth, somehow succeeding in his mission to clear the plate of Eddie’s kitchen misadventures.

Eddie looks like he’s about to get uppity again, but at least he’s no longer as gloomy as he was a few minutes ago.

=

The morning of the event is an utter madhouse.

Signages are misplaced, permits are missing, sponsors are referencing phantom transactions. As Operations Captain, Ben has the deeply uncomfortable responsibility of kicking out vendors whose trucks were supposed to vacate the premises at least two hours ago.

Once attendees trickle in, a sensation of almost cult-like calm passes through the organizers and crew, like they’re self-inducing a mass hallucination that everything is under control and there is absolutely no cause for panic.

Things go swimmingly at Richie’s booth to begin with. Richie discovers that he’s irresistibly charming to people who are already in a fantastic mood. Colorful trappings sell left and right. Everything goes more or less according to plan, until it doesn’t.

What happens is, an attractive woman with a buzzcut makes the mistake of smiling directly at Helen, one of the volunteers assigned to the merch booth. This makes Helen stagger back, hitting the table behind her with enough force to send half the items cascading to the ground.

Richie and Helen mirror each other’s shocked stupor for a couple of seconds before they notice Eddie running up to them. Richie panics, remembering how long it took for Eddie and a couple of volunteers to set the table up, only to have it come undone in one second of intense lady longing.

“It’s my fault!” Richie blurts out. He can’t in good conscience feed this poor baby gay volunteer to the sharks. “I’ll pay for it. All of it.”

Eddie gives him a strange look. “If you’ve got that much cash to burn, you can hand your donations directly to Stan. He’s near the entrance with Don.” He unclips the radio from his fanny pack’s strap and hands it to Richie. “Hold this for a second, will you? Adrian and Dayna and Mike are just flipping out right now because so-and-so activist came all the way from Portland or freaking Aroostook County or something.” After Richie takes it from him, he bends to retrieve the fallen goods, and Helen and the other volunteers rush to help.

Richie stands around, momentarily entranced by the swish of Eddie’s skimpy shorts, how the white piping contrasts against his skin. He deplores the unfairness of it, because seriously, how is Bill supposed to resist that? Richie’s legs may be longer, but they’re nowhere near as shapely as the gams on this unlawful creature.

Some unknown time elapses of Eddie restoring the booth to its former glory and Richie idling by like a semi-functioning voyeur. In the end, Richie’s sole contribution is a mumbled thanks.

Eddie promptly waves it off. “Occupational hazard.”

“Your shorts are an occupational hazard,” Richie answers before he can stop himself.

Just like that, the hackles go up again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fevered embarrassment overtakes Richie. “It means we’re here to run a local pride parade, not parade our pussies to the locals.”

“Fuck off, everyone’s in shorts like mine! Look at Kay!”

Indeed, Beverly’s friend and fellow sponsor showed up with two star-shaped holes on the front of her shirt, revealing the curve of her breasts coated in pink and orange glitter. She looks glorious, needless to say.

And Kay and Eddie aren’t alone in this, of course. Everyone’s dressed for the occasion, beyond the sunbeam yellow staff shirts they’re sporting. Richie himself has his favorite hat on ( _Yes, I am literally attracted to pans. Thanks for asking_ ) and a rainbow kilt – of a respectable length, mind you. It’s got a very tasteful slit that’s really only noticeable when he takes excessively long strides.

Richie doesn’t realize that he’d gone back to studying Eddie’s legs until he hears him snap, “My eyes are up here. You’re such an asshole.”

Richie jerks and unthinkingly follows the cue to look into Eddie’s eyes. He gets a sudden, intense craving for honey bourbon and, oh, somehow this view is even worse on his self-esteem?

Richie can only gape dumbfoundedly as Eddie turns to leave. Helen pats his back while he scrutinizes the shimmying swell right below Eddie’s waistline. “I know how you feel.”

Richie makes himself grin at her. “I don’t blame you. Anybody would love to see him go _and_ watch him walk away.”

=

“I had to see it to believe it. It’s not even 6:00 and we’re sold out?” Mike grins ear-to-ear, surveying the booth.

“Don we now our gay apparel!” Richie reaches out to victoriously jingle the mardi gras beads around Mike’s neck.

“Fa-la-la-la,” Mike replies good-naturedly. “Well done, merch team! Okay, now Adrian wants to take this bench to Block 2 near the food trucks. So we need this stripped down and to get the proceeds to Stan. After that, you’re free to disperse or stick around and help the others out. The Block Captains need the most help. Bev’s got hers handled, but 2 to 5 are—”

“A shit show?”

“—in a state of constant flux. Geo Neptune is onstage right now in Block 5, I was thinking I could—” Mike hesitates. “I probably shouldn’t, though. Andi’s got a kid looking for her parents at Block 2 right now.”

Richie grabs Mike’s shoulders and turns him around with a light shove forward. “Andi can deal. Go stan your obscure townie celebrities. Be unoppressed. That’s what today is about.”

“Just for a second!” Mike insists before breaking off into a sprint.

Not long after, Eddie is sent in Mike’s place, trailed by his troop of bushy-tailed volunteers. “So it’s true? Everything’s sold out? Don’s having a meltdown over the radio because he didn’t order enough buttons.”

“Tell him we’re sorry for being too good at our jobs,” Richie gloats with a fist bump to each of his volunteers.

“Oh, I’m sure Bev and Don’s designs had little to do with it.” If Richie didn’t know any better, he’d suspect a hint of fondness in Eddie’s smile. “Have you all done a lap around the grounds? Bev’s block has some really cool exhibits. You should go, you deserve it. My team and I can take care of this.”

“You heard him,” Richie tells his volunteers. “Scram! I’ll deliver the bounty to Uris Treasury.”

The group titters excitedly and bids their farewell to Richie. Helen tacks on a good luck – it’s overkill for the menial task of walking a lockbox four blocks down, but whatever, she’s sweet.

“You should go with them when you’re done,” Eddie suggests to him. “This day is for us, too, you know.”

“Better late than never, I suppose. I just wish I could’ve rocked this kilt with the twig limbs I had back in the day.” Wanting to be of use for once, Richie digs the metal box to his side and takes the trash bag from Eddie’s hands, holding it open for him.

After some time of diligent tidying, Eddie asks, “Why did you turn into such a jerk senior year?”

“Was I less of a jerk before then?” Richie wonders unironically.

Eddie straightens, standing still long enough to level a stare at him. “You were one of my best friends. After Bill, you were the first person I came out to.”

“Oh.” Richie hadn’t known that, and he’s kind of… touched by this admission. And for his part, he remembers that it wasn’t Stan or Bill or Bev that he’d asked about his wrists looking sturdy enough or his s’es sounding like they’re supposed to. And it wasn’t Ben or Mike that told him that it didn’t matter even if his wrists were to get more limber or if he started to sibilate more distinctly.

“I could always talk to you,” Eddie recalls softly. “You talked shit constantly, but your heart was always in the right place.”

“Huh.” Richie makes a show of patting his chest down. He slides his hands slowly down his stomach. “Has it migrated since then? Explains why I started to feel my body throbbing elsewhere.”

Eddie swats at Richie’s arm before his hand can wander any lower. He goes back to dismantling the décor and dropping paraphernalia into the trash bag. “I don’t understand what happened to you. Junior high Richie was really decent, underneath it all.”

Richie’s heart leaps just a little bit at that, and wow, it’s embarrassing how hard up he is for praise. “Aww, rein it in a little, baby, I can’t handle flattery of that caliber.”

“There were times when I…” Eddie shakes his head. “And then you went and came out to my mom for me.”

“I know, I know. But what- I mean, what do you want from me? I ate your scones, wasn’t that punishment enough?”

“Fuck you, they weren’t that bad.”

“Should I bum-rush the stage and humiliate myself in front of everyone? Will that appease you?”

“You might want to try actually apologizing one of these days,” Eddie suggests, clearly not expecting Richie to go through with it.

Feeling rebellious, Richie defies expectations. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault your my mom found out before you were ready to tell her, and I- yeah. I’m sorry, Eddie. I shouldn’t have done it.”

Eddie’s eyes and lips round in shocked unison. His eyelashes flutter, rapid enough to look like a spasm. “I forgive you.” He breaks into a genuine smile, rosy cheeks dimpling.

Whoa. What was that? Richie almost looks down at himself to investigate why his stomach felt like it was flipping inside out. “Don’t be all cute when I’m groveling.”

“I’m not being cute, and you’re hardly groveling.”

Yes, you are, you cheater! “Bitch, you’re always cute. That was my— Bill’s downfall.”

Abort, abort! What even was that? Stop talking!

Eddie bristles even more. “I am not cute, and he is not your Bill!”

Before Richie can extend his streak of consecutive stupid utterances, Betty from Block 5 saunters over to them, rainbow cape billowing behind her. “Hey! Eddie, can you tell Mike that Barbara needs two extra volunteers to help clear out the stage? I’ve been trying to reach him, but I think something’s wrong with my headset.”

“Sure, no problem.” Eddie juts out his hip where his radio is hooked and he looks up at Richie, expectant. “Can you?”

“What?”

“Just grab the earpiece for me? I just picked shit up off the ground, I can’t have my hands anywhere near my face.”

“Yeah, uh.” Richie gingerly grabs the radio and shakily loops the headset around the shell of Eddie’s ear, fingertips brushing the delicate skin. Shit, has he drank water at all today? His throat’s gotten way too dry.

“Thanks! Sorry to interrupt.” Betty waves between the two of them. “You can go back to your courting rituals.”

Eddie reddens and Richie lets out an ear-splitting laugh, too loud from forced levity. “Oh, god no, we’re not—” collides with “what, as if I would try to—!” while she skips away.

“That’s, hah.” Richie coughs. “Well, you’ve got things covered, right? I should go throw this to Stan and hand this in the trash. I mean, throw _this_ in the trash and hand _this_ to— you get what I’m saying.”

“Y-yeah, me too! I mean, not me too, but I should, um. Yeah.” Eddie fiddles with the radio’s controls. “Hey, Mike? Can you hear me?” His voice fades in the din as Richie flees the scene.


	2. Chapter 2

The Bill of it all does not help unconfound the day’s developments.

Picture this guy, schlepping back to his hometown in support of its LGBTQ community, choosing to wear fucking cargo shorts on a day when fabulosity is encouraged. What’s Richie supposed to make of that? To top it off, Bill’s shirt is adorned with every single button from the merch desk, claiming allegiance to everything under the spectrum. Like he’s trying to make a statement but doing it in the most obfuscating manner possible.

Richie tries pointing out every masculine form filling out hologram-trunks in hopes of teasing out a revealing comment from Bill. Unfortunately, his responses are an endless loop of encouragements for Richie to make a move if he’s interested in the men he’s scoping out. Nonetheless, Richie persists. He’s seeking out more candidates when his attention drifts back to Block 4, snagging on a now-familiar pair of shorts that—

\--are currently getting pawed at by some stranger.

“Dude. Dude! Are you okay with that?” Richie shamelessly gestures at Eddie cozying up with a hairless attendee. Eddie cannot be pulling those shenanigans in front of Bill, much less with some floozy who feels the need to advertise his scrupulously waxed torso.

“Why? Do you know that guy?” Bill asks.

“No, but. You and Eddie??”

“Me and Eddie what?” Bill goes on a fascinating facial journey, traversing the territories of confusion, awe and thrill, all in rapid sequence. “Oh shit, did you think—? Hah! It all makes sense now. I can’t believe I realize it sooner.”

Panic seizes Richie. “Realize what?”

“Why you got so snippy whenever Eddie gave me a hug. Or when I shared my lunch with him. Why you never let me sit next to him even though we were best friends!” Bill laughs. “ _Just_ best friends. I was never your competition, man.”

“Your… Oh, no, that’s not it. It’s n-not. Eddie?” _It was because I like_ — Richie’s brain halts mid-yell. He changes the target of his mental berating, turning in to himself. _It’s Bill I like. It’s_ Bill!

“I should’ve known you thought that he and I were dating,” Bill goes on, giddily relaying his deduction. “And that’s why you told his mom to keep me away from him, isn’t it?”

Richie lowers his chin, chastised.

“I’m not gonna lie, that wasn’t a good move. I don’t think he’s going to forgive you for that anytime soon—”

“He already did,” Richie interrupts, a little more coolly than he means to.

“Oh. That’s good, then.” Bill slaps Richie’s shoulder. Richie can’t even enjoy the thrill of their physical contact because Bill is glancing off, straight at Eddie and the new friend he’s making. “Let me tell you, though, I have never seen him give anyone a third chance. So use this second one wisely, yeah?”

=

After Richie’s core beliefs are methodically decimated, distractions crop up, abundant and merciful. Richie might’ve stewed in conflict for the remainder of the night if not for the stage acts and the spontaneous dance-offs after sundown.

Richie’s streak of not seeing Eddie is disrupted when Adrian sends them out on one final mission at the end of the night, to lug piles of refuse to the dumpster. Before they set off on their mission, Eddie removes an extra pair of gloves right off of his hands. He jabs the gloves into Richie’s solar plexus, insisting that he wear them.

“You were wearing two pairs of gloves?” Richie asks, incredulous. “How quickly do you go through condoms?”

And this is the mortifying moment when it happens.

Yep. This is what it takes to bring about Richie’s grandiose epiphany. It’s the sight of this double-gloved dork that bitch-slaps sense into Richie, gets him to come to terms with the fact that Stan had been right all along ( _ask Freud what he thinks about that_ ). So was Bill, for that matter ( _I was never your competition_ ).

Oh, and Beverly, too. ( _The way to a man’s heart, huh?_ )

And Adrian and Mike. ( _Are they fighting or flirting?_ )

And Helen ( _good luck!_ ) and Betty ( _you can go back to your mating rituals_ ).

Which means people who’ve known them one day caught on before Richie did? Fucking yikes.

“We’ve come a long way, huh?” Eddie interrupts his thoughts. He nods towards Don and Adrian who are holding their own exclusive celebration, wrapped up in each other, literally and otherwise.

“Not long enough,” Richie mumbles, honesty seeping through his now cracked-open chest.

“Can’t argue with that.”

A full five minutes later, Richie sees that Adrian and Don are still choking on each other’s tongues. “I don’t care if it’s homophobic to say it, but those guys are too proud of how much dick they’re getting. Like, I get it, but they need to stop making the rest of us feel so fucking single.”

Eddie lets out this snort-giggle combo that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is, but it nearly compels Richie to whine. “I feel weird agreeing with you twice in a row, so I’ll just say gay rights and all that.”

“Gay rights!” Richie chuckles nervously. “You’re not seeing anyone?” He so desperately aims for nonchalant that he overshoots and lands closer to combative.

“No, Richie, I’m not dating Bill.” Eddie sounds even more tired than Stan does when the latter has to reinforce the very same argument. “I never did, and I haven’t wanted to since middle school.”

“I knew it! knew you wanted to date him!” Richie crows, at least partially vindicated for the years he spent coveting Bill and Eddie’s relationship (putting aside how misguided his reasoning had been).

“When I was a literal child. And you have no room to talk,” Eddie points out. “Anyway, I was brother-zoned pretty early on. Honestly, I don’t even know if he’s into guys at all.”

“For real?”

“He won’t confirm it one way or the other. But if he does want to be with a guy, then you’re…”

What? Richie is… what? He could be worse? He isn’t all that bad? He might, by some miracle, qualify as boyfriend material for a compact, germophobic ball of concentrated energy?

Instead of finishing his thought, Eddie squirms and switches gears. “I won’t get in your way. If it comes down to it, I’ll support Bill. And you and I, we can—”

What? What can Richie and Eddie do? Go for coffee when this is over? Ditch their posts and blow each other behind the stage? Take each other’s last names and ride off into the sunset?

“—be friends again, maybe.”

“No!” Richie startles them both with his immediate vehement protest.

“‘No?!’” Eddie repeats scathingly.

“I- I just mean.”

“Fuck you, too!”

“I meant, I want—” Richie grabs Eddie’s nitrile rubber-covered hand. “Maybe I want to stop feeling so fucking single. Don’t you?”

“ _What_???” Eddie rips himself out of Richie’s grip, looking positively murderous. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Richie recoils. “Uh, wow. Or just take a blowtorch to my balls, that’d be a little less hurtful.”

“Fuck you, Richie,” Eddie spits before storming off.

It’s not as fun watching him walk away, this time.

=

Adrian and Don host a brunch as a thank you to their co-organizers and staff. Throughout it, Eddie refuses to glance Richie’s way, preferring to cling to Bill as if the latter’s skin had been replaced with antibacterial wipes. A building urge to retch ruins Richie’s appetite.

Mike interrupts Richie’s covert fuming by asking the table who wants the last oatmeal raisin cookie.

“Depends. Eddie didn’t bake it, did he?” Richie snarks.

With unprecedented discipline, Eddie doesn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll take it if no one wants it.” He tilts up at Bill. “Can you pass it to me?”

Bill, oblivious to the warning glares Richie is sending, does as he’s asked. He reaches past Ben, grabs the lone remaining cookie from the tray and drops it into Eddie’s waiting palm.

“Thanks.” Eddie plants a flagrantly unnecessary kiss on Bill’s cheek, and that’s the last straw. Richie stands up, upending his chair. He marches up to Eddie and grabs the cookie right out of his hand. “What the fuck?!” Eddie shrills.

“You didn’t even want this cookie!” Richie says. “Admit it! The only reason you went for it is because I showed interest in it.”

“Kay, you didn’t get a cookie. Do you want to split this with me?” Beverly pointedly calls out to her friend.

“It’s mine. Bill gave it to me,” Eddie snarls that one line extra viciously. “If you wanted it, maybe you shouldn’t have gone off eyeing other desserts as if they were the ones you were after!”

“What is happening?” Don wonders aloud.

“I’m leaving,” Stan announces blandly, chin resting on his palm.

“Don’t turn this around on me,” Richie says, tunnel vision on lock, pointing the cookie accusingly at Eddie. “You’re the one who had- had _cake_ served up to you on a platter. Then you turned around and glommed onto a cookie that wants to be left alone. A cookie that, by the way, would be nowhere near as good for you. Because… of cavities!”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Cake has nothing to do with this! This is about cookies, and the fact that you have no claim to that one, because you’re sticking your grubby hands in every cookie jar you come across!”

“Cake has everything to do with it! Cake has way more layers!” Richie stops to mouth _no offense_ to a very puzzled Bill. “Cake makes you smile. Cake would’ve satisfied you, cake would’ve filled you up!”

“I’M LEAVING,” Stan repeats, with feeling, this time. Everyone besides Eddie and Richie are quick to follow his example, each with varying degrees of cringe on their face.

Richie continues once the door shuts behind the others. “Cake would’ve done all it could to make you happy.”

“Why do you keep talking about cake?? All we have is that cookie, and I won’t let you have it—” Eddie tries to grab for it, but he doesn’t have Richie’s wingspan. “—fuck you and your fucking arms! You cannot have that piece when you’re going around trying to take a bite out of other cookies.”

“What other cookies?” Richie asks, though he can wager a guess.

Eddie flushes. “I don’t know! All I know is you’ve been salivating over one specific cookie since before you grew body hair. Do you seriously not care what these cookies might feel when you’re- you’re binging on them like that?”

“No? Or, wait, yes?” Richie ventures. “Okay, look, forget the cookies.”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you. They’re just crumbs to you, so fucking easy to brush off right after gorging on—”

“I said forget the fucking cookies!”

“You’ve liked Bill for twenty years!” Eddie explodes, finally dropping his abused metaphors.

“It wasn’t Bill!”

“It was Bill!”

Richie wants to tear his hair out. “This isn’t the time for rabbit-season-duck-season, oh my god. It wasn’t Bill, _it was you_. And I get it, it’s my fault if you don’t believe me now. It’s my fault my coping mechanism went, ‘you know what, you want this other equally unattainable guy, because that won’t destroy you nearly as much when he doesn’t like you back.’”

Eddie does this little Shocked Pikachu face and Richie? Is so fucking smitten. He has no idea how he hid this monster from his conscious brain for so long.

“I mean, I. Sometimes I humored the thought that you could be covering something up,” Eddie says in a hushed voice that Richie hardly remembers him ever using. “It sounded far-fetched in my head, but then you’d… touch me a lot? Fawn over me?”

“I wouldn’t go that far—”

“‘Cute, cute, cute!’” Eddie interjects with a devastatingly spot-on impression of teenage Richie.

“Yeah, alright already! I am the last one to notice how fucking bad I had it for you,” Richie concludes, almost spitefully. “There you have it, turns out I adored you this whole time, you ridiculous little hellion.”

“Well, I liked you too, but I guess your legal blindness doesn’t just refer to your eyesight.”

“Wait. What?” Richie breathes out, gobsmacked. “But. You were into that gangly-as-fuck trashmouth with an overbite the size of California? Eddie, have you no self-respect?”

“You’d eat poisoned scones to stop me from feeling bad about myself! You’d cover for a kid you just met if you think I’d blow my lid at them! How do you expect me not to—” Eddie cuts himself off. “And don’t talk to me about self-respect. At least I’ve never tried to seduce our ambiguously straight group-father-figure.”

“Hmm, remind me, who was the one trying to mount Bill five minutes ago?”

“I hate you.”

“Nuh-uh, you said you like me.” Richie’s heart thumps. “Or, you said you did. Past tense?”

“‘Past te—’ You’re so fucking dumb,” Eddie mutters. “4.0 GPA my ass.”

“Is that, like, a coded invitation, because I am very much interested in any and all insert-gerund-here involving your—mmmmpph!”

The moment Eddie presses their lips together, Richie’s brain goes haywire, from hysterical to soft and back again. The forgotten cookie falls from his slackened grip and is replaced by fistfuls of Eddie’s hoodie.

Eddie’s lips are soft and sure, working to arrest all of Richie’s senses with the nearly suffocating firmness of his kiss. Richie angles their heads to allow further exploration of each other’s mouths when access is finally granted.

Richie’s afraid he might pass out from lack of air by the time Eddie lets go of him. He feels more than he hears an answer whispered against his skin. “Present tense, Rich. Present tense.”

“‘S it ‘cause I said gerund? Does grammar talk get you hot?” Richie slurs, kiss-stupid and perhaps disproportionately aroused by the breath tickling his neck. “Sorry to _preposition_ you with such an _active voice_ , but I envision a _future perfect_ with you.”

“If you can shut up for five minutes, you might get to _conjugate_.”

It’s not a suggestion – Eddie ensures that Richie doesn’t get another word in. Richie is backed against the wall and climbed like a fucking tree, glasses knocked askew as he’s mauled by a sweetness that no cookie could rival.

It’s probably uncouth to be canoodling with your childhood friend while your other friends remain somewhere in the same vicinity. But, in the revolutionary words of the previously undercover love of Richie’s life: gay rights and all that.


End file.
